


Should Blue Roses Bleed Red

by OctaviaPeverell



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fix-it for S05E06, R plus L equals J
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-19
Updated: 2015-05-19
Packaged: 2018-03-31 07:26:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3969329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OctaviaPeverell/pseuds/OctaviaPeverell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Seven words are all it takes for Jon to ride with Stannis, but it is not the realm or loyalty or fealty that he rides for. He rides for a torn wedding gown and newly-revealed red hair. He rides for the only Stark in Winterfell, only to realise that he is no hero.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Should Blue Roses Bleed Red

**Author's Note:**

> After the major clusterfuck that was S05E06, I needed to join all the Sansa Saviours out there and give her something better. I've read several stories already where someone - usually Stannis, Jon or even Theon - arrive just in time to rescue Sansa. I didn't want this to be one of those, or at least not to the same extent. It's literally taken a total of an hour to write this so I apologise for any discrepancies and general shittiness but this was just something that needed to emerge from the wrath and the tears I shed while watching 'that' scene and saying, "no, no, no, no" to myself the whole time. 
> 
> I do hope some of you might enjoy this even a little. 
> 
> Also, I may or may not turn this into a multi-chaptered fic, depending on how I feel. We shall see.

The blood splatters steam in the thick and treacherous snow but Jon’s body knows the element so intimately that his feet sluice through the thick, white blanket. The snow is as much his home as Winterfell’s ruins are and he moves on instinct, cutting and killing and weaving through the familiar streets without taking his eyes off his primary goal. 

Wildlings and Crows and Stags alike rise and fall in the home of his childhood as they weed out and destroy the traitorous scum that’s taken root. But the roots of winter go far deeper and the rotting wood of a flaying cross is easily cut down. Their blades are sharp and his rage is sharper still, but the red cuts through his vision, a darker and more gruesome shade that he has no time for. 

_Kill them all_ , his mind taunts in repeated whispers that overlap and hiss and growl strength into his muscles, until they ache no longer. Blood is what he steals but red is what he will protect. He knows, as pitchforks and hot irons join the fray, that the smaller and lesser families of the North are all fighting for the same cause. 

_He is cruel. He will destroy her._

He does not know who sent the raven, nor does he care, because those seven words, accompanied by a lock of red hair were all he needed to break his vows. If he returns alive it will only be to die but he prays the price will be worth it. Let Stannis make his promises. Let the Red Woman whisper her visions into his ear. They may all burn and die and he would not care as long as she is safe to walk over their bodies. 

Of all the deaths that are laid out at his feet there is only one whose blood Jon will take pleasure in licking off his blade. It will feel like what his first kill never was. He will enjoy it, he knows. 

Someone grabs his wrist and Jon nearly takes her head until he sees who it is. Memories of a large woman wielding a ladle come to him then, but this woman’s face is gaunter, harder and older than before. 

“The castle. Lady Catelyn’s old room. _Go._ ” she tells him firmly, pushing him towards the stone steps that were once uninviting, but now he ploughs through the cold-faced apparition of Lady Stark to find that the fighting has been drawn indoors. 

He cuts one down and one of Stannis’ men takes another in his way. He takes the stairs two, three at a time, stumbling only on the last step, and then it’s down a number of corridors, his boots wet and echoing. 

There is light coming from under the door but no voices reach his ears and it only spurs him to run harder until his entire body is crashing into the heavy wood and bursting it open. 

The first thing he hears is the crackling of torches and candles and the fireplace. 

The first thing he smells is the metallic tang of blood and it pervades his nose, making his hairs stand on end. 

The first thing he sees is red. On the floor, on the walls, splattered on the lanterns and on the huddled, quivering body that’s crouched next to him. 

There’s red over her too. She’s covered in it and her hands are slick and sticky. 

Her hair is red. Beautiful red. 

Jon forgets to breathe. 

She’s angled away from him, perched on the edge of the bed with the back of her dress torn violently open to reveal the expanse of her back. There are some scars there but nothing recent. There are no finger-shaped bruises or crescent indents in spite of the stench of violence that drips from her skin. There’s a body lying on the bed and a limp cock hanging from between the open flaps of hastily undone breeches. 

It sets his blood boiling again until he inhales sharply in horror and rage and fear. 

At any other time he might be surprised that the ruckus of his entrance hadn’t stirred her, but the sound of his breathing does, and she cranes her neck over her shoulder. The whites of her eyes are showing and there’s a look of bewilderment and surprise on her bloodied features. 

When she moves, it causes her fingers to tug on the knife that’s still embedded in Ramsay Bolton’s neck and the sound is so grotesque and loud in the sudden hush of the room. 

Recognition flickers in her gaze and a small, strange smile plays at the corners of her mouth. 

“Jon. Hello.” She swallows and licks her lips, which are caked with dried blood. “Look.” She gestures with her free hand, looking back down at the corpse with an almost childlike curiosity that worries him. 

“Sansa,” he murmurs, squeezing the hilt of his sword. 

The sound of her name makes her turn to him again. 

“Yes?”

The thought strikes him, then; she doesn’t understand. It happens to many men who make their first kill; the shock of taking a life confuses them for a while and they deny that the deed was ever done. He can only assume that killing the Bolton bastard had been an act of desperation and he wonders how long she’s been sitting here and staring at his body. 

“Sansa,” he tries again, sheathing his sword. “Let go of the knife.”

Surprisingly she does as she’s told, but now her hands are free and she’s looking at her bloody digits and wiping them on her stained, white skirt. 

“I didn’t realise that killing someone was this messy,” she comments lightly, grimacing. “I suppose I should’ve expected it.”

Carefully he makes his way towards her, sheathing his sword so as not to frighten her any more than she already is. Jon takes care in slowly kneeling before her, taking her red hands between his and squeezing them reassuringly. He has to bring her back slowly, he knows; he has to be gentle. 

“Jon,” she says again, really looking at him this time, as awareness creeps back into her pale blue eyes. “You’re late.”

The comment stumps him for a little and he blinks up at her. 

“Yes. Sorry.”

She shakes her head, eyes narrowing shrewdly. “Did you think you’d get to be the hero in my story?”

The words are not meant to be unkind, no matter the harshness of her tone, for Jon detects defiance and worry in the light tremor of her now-womanly voice. Jon sees as she goes through numerous transitions, her features wiping and re-wiping shock, fear and surprise, until he bears the weight of her sharp, cold gaze. 

“I killed him. _I_ did,” she informs him tightly, and Jon nods, trying to appease her. “He was going to rape me and make Theon watch.”

The forgotten figure in the corner flinches at his name but Jon doesn’t want to deal with any more surprises today, other than the one sitting before him, looking resplendent and dangerous in her torn, bloody wedding dress and her hair all awry. 

“You killed him,” he affirms, doing his best to convey pride and understanding. “He deserved it for what he was going to do. For what he has done to you.”

“He does,” she’s quick to say. “It wasn’t a quick death; not like Father would have done.”

He doesn’t flinch but it’s a near thing. Father. Uncle. Ned Stark. 

“So,” he begins, trying and failing to wipe the blood from her fingers. “What now?”

She arches a brow, her features rearranging themselves once again and Jon has to hold his breath when he sees the look of both Lord and Lady Stark in her cold, gaunt features. 

“Now? Now I go and see Stannis Baratheon. Now I tell him that _I_ am Warden of the North.” Jon stares at her in awe and mounting anxiety but no words leave his mouth as she continues in a frosty, taunting voice, “No self-proclaimed king or faraway dragon queen will take Winterfell from me.” With hard eyes, she clenches her fingers around his, squeezing them tight like manacles that are forever binding him to her. “This is my home. They can’t frighten me.”


End file.
